


Mind over Florid Matter

by swanofthelake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Themes, Angst, Case Fic, Extreme slow burn, Fluff, Gore, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, One-Sided Love, Reverse Hanahaki Disease, Slow Burn, Succubus, Swearing, TW: throwing up, Unrequited to returned love, flower symbolism, incubus, sex demons lmao, this is very domestic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 19:30:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18534019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanofthelake/pseuds/swanofthelake
Summary: Unrequited love is more than just an emotion, flowers have more meaning than ever before, and falling in love with the wrong person can have deadly consequences.When what he had first thought to be a simple cough turns out to be something far more sinister, Dean finds that he has a lot more to worry about than just finding a case.The physical manifestation of unrequited love known as Hanahaki Disease has begun to grow inside his lungs, and it’s only a matter of time before it becomes fatal.Only Dean isn’t in love with anyone.Someone else has been trying to catch his eye to no avail, and their Hanahaki Disease has ricocheted back onto him.With Castiel, Sam, and Jack by his side, Dean only has a matter of time to figure who has feelings for him before it’s too late.In a harrowing race against time, hesitation will cost him everything — even his life.





	Mind over Florid Matter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [papadaniii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/papadaniii/gifts).



> This fic is a gift for my best friend, Dani, who I met a year ago. I honestly don’t know where I would be without her. I love you more than anything or anyone, Dani. The world shines brighter with you in it. She is the artist who drew the gorgeous transition images. ❤️ I love you, and I’m so proud to call you my friend. 
> 
> Another huge thank you to my beta reader, the brilliant Beq! She was the one who created the fantastic chapter art. Isn’t it perfect? ❤️ You can find her on Instagram at @beqsdoodles. Thank you for everything you do for me, Beq, I love you!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who support me through my massive hiatus. I really appreciate it. I hope you enjoy the first chapter of Mind over Florid Matter. 
> 
> Please come message me at @swanofthelake on Instagram! ❤️

                                                        

 

When Dean awoke that morning, the bunker was quiet.

There was no scurry of activity, nor the sound of voices drifting down the hallway. His phone was silent, no text messages or calls waiting to be responded to. Only the occasional creak from the door hinge kept Dean company. The absence of chaos was a surprisingly nice change, even Dean had to admit that, albeit he did so reluctantly. It would be just his luck that he would jinx himself. That seemed to be commonplace for him.

Nonetheless, it was peaceful, and he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Mornings like this were few and far between; it was best to enjoy it while it lasted.

It took him a moment to pry open his sleep-heavy eyes; the silence threatened to lull him back to sleep.

The Men of Letters bunker was the last place Dean would think of when he imagined peace and quiet — something was always going on, even if it was something rather small.

Today, however, was the exception to the rule.

The blanket slipped away and pooled around his waist as he sat up. The cool air nipped at his exposed skin. Dean didn’t remember it being this cold when he had fallen asleep last night. The warmth of his bed urged him to stay — he tempted himself with the idea of doing exactly that. He had nothing important to do.

With that thought came the realisation that that was the exact reason that he had to get up in the first place: he needed to find a case.

Dean reached for his phone — it laid on the bedside table — and took a moment to check his notifications. The screen was startlingly bright, and he had to close his eyes for a second. A moment passed before he opened his eyes again.

The lock screen was mysteriously blank.

He didn’t know if he was more disappointed or thankful: no cases had popped up overnight. Dean dropped his phone back down onto the table and rolled over onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. It took a moment for him to blink back the gritty feeling of sleep from his eyes.

Every morning like clockwork, the first thing he did was check his phone in hopes he would find a case, or at the very least a lead. So far, nothing had come up.

For the past month, they had been unable to find a single trace of anything remotely supernatural. They were stuck in the midst of a dry spell; the cases they found were slowly-yet-surely dwindling. Many of them turned out to be as simple as ghosts — the only excitement they had encountered so far was a nesting lamia in Idaho, who had taken to gutting anyone foolish enough to wander past her. It had taken a week to get her blood out of their clothes.

 

Even now, Dean swore he could still smell the tang of iron.

 

But that was been a month ago, and they had yet to find a case close to it since.

Hopefully, today would change that.

Dean stretched his arms up and over his head, and the joints in his back popped one by one. He had had a dream last night, though it had faded away as quickly as he had woken up. Whatever it was, it must have been nice — he had slept better than he had in a long time.

Now that _he_ was awake, though, he knew he wouldn’t go back to sleep. He had no other option than to get up now. He couldn’t lounge around forever; he had work to do, to find.

His bed begrudgingly forgotten, Dean slipped free of the sheets. He wondered if he needed to invest in a heater as he reached for his discarded shirt, which laid on the floor next to his bedside table. He collected his jeans from yesterday — he deemed them clean enough to wear for another day — grabbed a pair of fresh socks from his drawer. His clothes finally gathered, he set out for the showers.

The first few nights Dean had slept here, he had found it nearly impossible to find the showers. The bunker was a maze in and of itself, and he couldn’t find his way back to his room half the time. After a week, he had come to realise that the showers weren’t far from the gym. He had finally found them: half a dozen little closed-in shower stalls with the perfect water pressure. There was another bathroom a few doors down from his own room, but it only ever used cold water for the showers — he had tried to fix it to no avail.

Dean wondered if anyone else was awake, but he dismissed the thought as soon as it had arisen.

It was still early, but he never would have guessed it was daylight outside if not for the alarm on his bedside table. He had taken a bleary glance before he had left the room: it was half-past-six in the morning, which meant more-than-likely that Sam had yet to wake up, and Jack was still fast asleep.

Dean checked in on them as he passed by their bedroom doors — they hadn’t stirred when he peeked through the partially open doors.

Castiel, however, wasn’t in his room; he was nowhere to be found. He didn’t need to sleep like the rest of them, Dean remembered as he shut the door quietly. He didn’t know why he had expected Castiel to be in there. Truth be told, Dean didn’t know _what_ he got up to while the rest of them were asleep.

He didn’t exactly mind either, though he was admittedly curious. He would never say this aloud, though. He would never hear the end of it if he did.

Dean forced himself down the hallway. The floor was cold, frigid enough to numb him right to the bone.

“Need to get a heater,” he said aloud to himself. His words were met with silence; he had been hoping someone would answer. Preferably someone who lived in the bunker, but the lack of excitement recently meant that he would have gratefully taken an intruder at that point.

The light was already on in the shower room by the time he got there. There was a fresh towel waiting for him, neatly folded upon the bench opposite the stalls. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, either. Castiel had mentioned offhandedly that he sometimes did the laundry.

Had he done this? Dean wondered, pulling his shirt up and over his head. It seemed like the kind of thing he would do.

His pants followed after the shirt, then his socks; he left his dirty clothes in a pile next to the towel. Opposite the towel, the bundle of his clean clothes lay waiting.

It took a moment for the water to heat up, but the wait was worth it.

The hot shower washed away the remnants of his sleep and left him feeling far more clear-headed than he had when he had first woken up. It took an effort and a half to finally force himself out — Castiel had been right about the wonderful water pressure.

It was a pity that the shower hadn’t washed away his dark circles, too, Dean thought as he examined his face in the mirror.

 

Sleepless nights had been doing him no favours.

 

After dressing and drying his hair off as best as he could — which ultimately meant little more than a quick rub with a towel — Dean left the shower room in search of Castiel. It wasn’t usually difficult to find him, as he tended to stick to the same rooms every morning: the library, the war room, and the kitchen, the latter being the likelier of the lot.

After dropping his dirty laundry off in his room — he could deal with it later, he told himself — he made his way to the kitchen. He would look there first, then the war room and the library.

Fortune was smiling upon him that day: he could hear someone rummaging around, moving cups and plates — it had to be Castiel.

Dean could almost hear his quiet humming.

His socked feet made very little sound as he crept — he had no need to sneak, as he wasn’t trying to stay out of sight, but it felt odd to disturb the peace — to the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee wafting out of the room did little to ease his budding headache, but it was appreciated nonetheless.

“Cas?” Dean leaned around the doorframe and caught sight of a familiar head of dark hair. “You in here?”

“Good morning, Dean. Are you coming in for breakfast?”

Castiel was standing in front of the kitchen bench, pulling a fresh jug of coffee out of the coffee machine. He had yet to turn and face Dean — all Dean could see was the back of his head; his hair was standing on end, as though he had fallen asleep while it was still wet. It was a familiar sight, one that Dean had grown fond of.

He would never admit that aloud, though.

“Yeah, I might as well.” Dean pushed away from the doorway to join Castiel by the kitchen counter. It was then that he noticed the kitchen wasn’t as empty as it had been the night before: a leather-bound book lay waiting in the centre of the table, an untouched cup beside it. “You makin’ coffee for yourself, Cas?” Dean asked. He had to stifle a yawn behind his hand.

Castiel glanced over his shoulder to give Dean a hint of a smile, the kind that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners. Unlike Dean, he looked wide awake; there wasn’t a trace of exhaustion in his expression. His eyes were bright like he had just woken up from a long and restful sleep. “Not for me; for you. I knew you would wake up soon.”

“Thanks, Cas. I really need it right about now.”

Coffee pot in hand, Castiel took the seat opposite him. “Luckily for you, I made plenty.” He pushed the coffee pot towards Dean, and it came to stop beside the already-waiting cup.

 

It was steaming — the perfect temperature, in Dean’s opinion.

 

Mustering up a tired yet grateful smile, Dean poured himself a generous amount. He didn’t say another word until he had drunk half the cup.

“How long have you been in here?” Dean said from behind his cup of coffee. He took another drink and had to subtly blink through watery eyes when it seared down his throat. Castiel folded his hands together on top of the table, right beside the book.

“Not long. How did you sleep?” he asked.

“Fine,” was Dean’s mumbled reply. He hid another yawn behind his hand. His early-rising had done more harm than good.

“You didn’t sleep well.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Dean felt obligated to answer regardless. He drained the dregs from the bottom of his cup and set it down on the table.

“Slept great, actually,” he said. His wet hair continued to drip down the back of his neck. “Just too much caffeine before bed, you know.”

Castiel studied him carefully, his eyes searching. For what, Dean wasn’t sure. Castiel apparently found nothing, and he returned his attention to the book in front of him without saying a word. Straining forward, Dean distantly realised he recognised what Castiel was half-heartedly thumbing through: a book on mythological creatures. Castiel had found it in the very back of the library only a few days earlier and hadn’t put it down since. Sam had had more influence on him than Dean had ever expected. Antsy and in need of work, Sam had wasted no time in putting Castiel through his paces. To his merit, Castiel hadn’t said a word of complaint. Desperation for a case could do that to a man.

Well, Dean reasoned, an _angel_.

With every case little more than a dead end, it was no wonder that the occupants of the bunker had started to grow stir crazy. Even Castiel seemed to be on edge. They were all waiting, but none of them knew what for.

“You look bored,” Castiel said, drawing Dean out of his thoughts. His eyebrow quirked, he looked more curious than judging. Dean gave him a shrug.

“You didn’t happen to find a case, did you?”

Castiel frowned and shook his head. “I didn’t, though there is a newspaper here if you’d like to read through it and see if anything looks _off.”_

After a moment of thought, Dean decided to check through the paper; he had nothing better to do, and he could find something interesting if he was lucky. Castiel found the newspaper for him on the end of the kitchen bench, partially hidden by a bowl of fruit Sam had placed there — no one had touched it except for the man who had put it there in the first place.

Dean opened the paper to page three, which read:

 

_House Prices Hit Rock Bottom: Is this the Housing Crash we Dreaded?_

 

It was the furthest thing from what he wanted.

The next page wasn’t much better, nor the page after that. Even the newspapers had been reduced to something painfully mediocre.

“Did you find anything?” Castiel asked without looking up from his book. Dean threw the newspaper across the table where he couldn’t touch it again.

“ _Nothing,”_ he said, the bite of irritation in his voice.

For once in his life, Dean almost wanted the world to start ending all over again. At least then they would have something to do. It was a stupid thought, but one he found himself thinking of nonetheless.

For now, reading old newspapers was the extent of his research.

Castiel rose abruptly to his feet. “Jack will be waking up soon,” he said as he headed for the cupboards. “Do you think he would prefer Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Cheerios?”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch,” Dean said. His eyes followed Castiel from one side of the room to the other.

A mere second later, there was the new sound of socked feet dragging against tile, then a scruffy-haired boy appeared in the doorway; Jack was shuffling slowly into the kitchen, his eyes little more than thin slits. It was as though he had been drained of all energy, but he always did look that way in the morning. His exhaustion did little to damper the smile he gave both Dean and Castiel, though.

“Good morning,” he said, pausing briefly in the doorway. He blinked slowly once, twice, then a third time, as though struggling to stay awake.

“Mornin’.” Dean bit back a grin; Jack’s hair looked little better than a bird’s nest. Jack managed a tired smile, but not much more than that. “Something wrong, kid?”

Jack sunk into the chair next to Castiel.

“Just tired,” he mumbled. His eyes drifted down the length of the table, falling upon the cereal box next to Castiel. Suddenly, the tired look on his face was gone. “Is that Cinnamon Toast Crunch?”

Dean slid the box across the table to him. “Sure is.”

As Jack left to grab a bowl and spoon, Castiel turned back to Dean. “I was going to go into town later and see if anything has happened recently, anything that hasn’t made it to the paper.”

Dean gave him an impressed grin; he hadn’t even considered the idea yet himself. “Not a bad idea, actually. Might come with you.”

“That would be nice,” Castiel said, returning the smile. He didn’t say anything else; Jack had returned with a milk-filled bowl in his hands, and he was chattering away before he had even sat down.

“I was helping Sam with research last night,” he said, reaching across the table for the cereal once more, “and I found something _really_ cool.”

“What did you find?” Castiel asked before Dean had the chance. The smile he was giving Jack was different to the one he had given Dean; this one was more fond than amused.

“Well, I found—” Jack’s reply was drowned out by the sound of the cereal hitting the milk in the bowl, but Castiel seemed to hear him anyway. He smiled wide, almost enough for his teeth to show.

“All right.” Dean mimed a deliberate motion of closing a book. “No research at the breakfast table.”

“That’s not a rule.” Jack sat up straighter. Then, he frowned and asked Castiel, “is it?”

“It is now, kid.” Dean hid his smile behind his cup of coffee.

 

Before Jack could — playfully — argue back, someone standing by the door caught their attention.

 

“Hey, guys.”

“Mornin’, Sammy.” Dean gave Sam a halfhearted nod. Both Castiel and Jack murmured their own greetings. Sam gave him a tired smile when their eyes met.

Sam looked no better than Dean; dark circles were beginning to bruise the skin under his eyes. He was still dressed in an old set of pyjamas, the colour an off blue. Even at this early hour his laptop was tucked securely under his arm.

Dean hadn’t expected any less.

“I heard someone say ‘research’?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

Dean groaned. “Please don’t start so early in the morning.”

“What have you been doing?” Sam’s question was directed at both Castiel and Jack, who had taken Dean’s distraction as a chance to continue their conversation.

“Just researching mostly,” Jack said.

They were too busy reading to say much. Even Sam noticed; he glanced over in their direction.

“What are you reading?” he asked curiously, craning his neck to take a look. Castiel looked up to answer him.

“Backup information for our cases,” he said. “You never know if we’ll run into a bunch of chupacabras.”

“If we ever get another case,” Dean added under his breath. Sam gave him an odd look.

“Something will pop up.” He set his laptop down on the countertop. “But before we worry about that, has anyone had breakfast yet?”

“Only Jack.” Dean jerked a thumb in Jack’s direction, and Jack looked up at the mention of his name.

“Is someone else making something?” Jack asked, staring down at his empty bowl. “Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that cereal…”

“I can make breakfast,” Sam offered. “I’m sure everyone is starving. I certainly am.”

“I’ll help!” Jack jumped to his feet. “There are chocolate chips in the fridge. We could make chocolate chip pancakes.”

The hopeful grin that spread across Jack’s face was enough to break Sam’s resolve. Healthy eater or not, not even Sam could resist Jack’s charms.

“You guys” — Jack gestured towards the doorway — “go wait out there. The pancakes must be a _surprise.”_

“We already know what you’re makin’,” Dean pointed out.

Castiel nudged him. “C’mon, Dean. We can’t ruin the surprise.”

The gentle teasing in his voice made Dean snort, but he otherwise didn’t argue as he was led from the kitchen. He snatched the newspaper off of the table on his way out.

“You want to help me look?” Dean raised the newspaper in Castiel’s direction. “Two heads are better than one.”

Castiel’s shoulder brushed against Dean’s as he leaned in. Instead of reading over Dean’s shoulder, however, he took the paper from his hands.

“I’ve already read through half,” Castiel explained when Dean frowned at him. “I’ll continue where I left off.”

That was fair enough. Dean didn’t argue, though he did find himself occasionally craning his neck to read over Castiel’s shoulder.

 

Like Castiel, he had found nothing of interest.

 

“You got up rather early this morning.” Castiel didn’t look up as he flipped through another page of the newspaper. “Were you finding it hard to sleep?”

Dean gave a halfhearted shrug. “Wasn’t that, exactly,” he said. “I just wanted to get a head-start on the case chase before Sammy started bashin’ my door down.”

“Staying here and doing nothing is making him antsy,” Castiel said. He gave Dean a deliberate look, an expression that seemed to imply that Sam wasn’t the only one who was affected by the bunker’s idle atmosphere.

“At least he can go lookin’ through the dusty boxes of junk hangin’ around. He’s real into that _nerd_ stuff. He’s got something to do. Me?” Dean snorted. “I’d find more entertainment bashin’ my head against the wall.”

“Maybe you could help him with sorting through those ‘dusty boxes of junk’? I’m sure he needs all the help he can get.” Castiel’s amused eyes belied his words.

“He won’t find it here.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“We can hear you, just so you know,” Sam called out from the kitchen. “It’s not _junk.”_

 _“_ Yeah, yeah, _yeah_.” Dean cut over him before he could continue. “We get it, Sammy.”

“Remember who’s making the pancakes…” Sam warned. Even from as far away as he was, Dean could hear the grin in his voice.

If he was trying to hide his own smile, Castiel was failing miserably. “We could cook next time.”

“Speaking of cooking…” The smell of fresh pancakes and cocoa was making Dean’s mouth water. “They done yet?” he called out to the kitchen.

“Not yet,” Jack called back.

A beat passed, then Sam added, “patience is a virtue, Dean.”

“Take that patience and shove it up your—”

Castiel cleared his throat before Dean could finish the sentence.

“After we eat, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to clean up one of the storage rooms,” he said. “We might find something useful.”

Dean found himself nodding along. “We’ll go take a look after breakfast, yeah?”

“Of course.” Castiel looked off into the distance, as though lost in thought.

“Cas,” Dean cleared his throat, “man, you look like you’re goin’ to burst a blood vessel. What’s got your attention?”

“Just thinking,” Castiel said. He was clearly searching for something — his eyes were fixated on the newspaper in front of him — yet Dean wasn’t sure what. When he made mention of this, Castiel made a distracted sound in the back of his throat.

Recognising the end of a conversation for what it was, Dean said nothing more.

A few minutes later, when Castiel had returned to reading over the newspaper instead of staring at it, Jack said, “You can come back in now.”

 

It was the best thing Dean had ever heard.

 

The pancakes looked perfect if one ignored the blackened and burnt edges. They were a crisp golden-brown with a smattering of melted chocolate chips.

Jack slid the plate in front of Dean. “We ran out of eggs, but I hope this is okay,” he said, referring to the two pancakes on Dean’s plate. Each pancake was the size of the plate itself. Even Castiel was given a plate; he accepted it with a warm smile.

“Thank you, Jack, Sam,” he said. “These look wonderful.”

“I’m _starvin’._ Cheers.” Dean saluted Jack and Sam with his plate before he dug in.

The room was filled with the sounds of forks against porcelain and cups being set down against the tabletop. Everyone was too focused on their grumbling stomachs to worry about idle conversation. A long while — at least, what felt like a long while to Dean — passed before Castiel finally spoke.

“You woke up earlier than I thought you would.” Castiel set his fork back down. He made no indication that he was going to eat much more than a few bites.

“Couldn’t get back to sleep. I could hear you guys walking up and down the hallway.” Sam leaned across the table to grab the coffee pot. As he filled his cup, he said, “I figured I would get up, too.”

“I could hear you guys talking,” Jack said. “I think I accidentally woke you up, Sam, on the way over here. My door got jammed.” Quietly, under his breath, he said, “I had to kick it open.” His sheepish smile was quickly hidden behind another forkful of food.

“I’ll take a look at it later,” Dean said. “A bit of oil should fix that right up.”

“You don't need to worry; you didn’t wake me up.” Sam glanced in Jack’s direction. “I was already awake. I had to check my emails.”

“For potential cases?” Jack asked.

Sam nodded. “I signed up to a lot of newspapers and all sort of things. Anything suspicious gets sent my way.” He looked down at his plate as he forked another pancake. “But I didn’t get anything. Well, nothing for _us,_ anyways. Plenty of other stuff.”

Dean gestured to Sam’s laptop with a chocolate-covered fork. “Can’t you find something on there?”

Sam’s eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, as though praying for strength. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

“That’s what we will do today,” Castiel said from across the table. He was the only one who was no longer eating. “Sam could search the internet with Jack. Dean, you and I can go out to the town to look for something.”

Dean ignored the mention of case-searching for the time being. “You ain’t goin’ to have any more?” He looked pointedly at Castiel’s barely touched plate.

“You know I don’t need to eat, Dean,” Castiel said. His eyes flickered briefly down to the plate, but he otherwise made no move to touch the food aside from a firm poke with his fork.

“Yeah, but it’s gettin’ awkward sitting here while you’re not eating.” Dean pushed the plate closer. “Help yourself. Consider it a celebration.”

“A celebration of what?”

“Gettin’ to eat pancakes,” Dean said with a cheeky grin.

“Sam and I made them from scratch,” Jack told Castiel. “They’re really good.” The smile was audible in his voice.

Somehow, that softened Castiel’s resolve, and he began to pick at the pancakes Jack had given him.

“What do you think?” Jack asked. He looked expectantly at everyone seated around the table, waiting for their reactions.

“Tastes good,” Dean said through a mouthful of food. The bright smile Jack gave him in return made the wait worth every second. Even Castiel offered his own compliment, though they all knew he couldn’t exactly taste it the same way they could.

 

It was appreciated all the same.

 

When the last bite had been swallowed and all the chatter had fallen silent, Dean set aside his plate and asked the question that had been on his mind since he had awoken that morning.

“So, what now? We still don’t have any cases to work on.” He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair; he was the very picture of casual indifference, but he felt like quite the opposite. High-strung and as a tense as a bow would be a better way to describe him.

The carefree atmosphere fizzled out and left behind only the painful reminder that, like Dean had said, they were predators without any quarry.

“I don’t know,” Sam said. His smile had quickly faded into something a little more grim. “We’ll just have to keep searching until we find something, or until something finds us.”

He was leaving unsaid what they all feared: the silence was a coverup for something far more sinister.

 

Dean loathed to think of what it could be.

 

“We could always check out the lamia nest in Idaho again,” Sam suggested. “Just make sure it’s empty.”

“We were only just there.” Dean looked up from the newspaper in his lap. He contented himself with swinging to and fro on the back legs of his chair.

“Just in case.”

“Gettin’ desperate?” Dean threw the newspaper to the other end of the table; it was as dry as it had always been. “There’s no point in drivin’ all the way back to Idaho for a creature we don’t even know is still there.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve got nothing else,” he said, gesturing to his laptop. “It’s like all everything’s been wiped off the radar.”

Sam wasn’t wrong. Neither hide nor hair of a supernaturally-influenced accident had shown up, much to their chagrin.

“So what’re we supposed to do — just sit here?” Dean took a long, much needed drink from his mug.

Sam gave him a helpless shrug. “We’ll just have to wait it out.”

Dean fell forward and planted his feet against the floor with a heavy _‘thump’_ . “I’m going looney down here. I would take _anything_ at this point.”

Behind him, he heard the sound of Castiel’s sigh. “Only _you_ would find a break frustrating, Dean.”

“You can’t tell me you ain’t ready to get out of here, too.” Dean glanced over his shoulder; Castiel met his stare with a raised eyebrow. “Besides, every time we relax, something comes up.”

“I’m a little less vocal about it, that’s for certain.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Who ruffled _your_ feathers?”

“Dean’s right,” Sam interjected, drawing their attention back to the situation at hand. “It’s not like we can just lay back and relax either. The moment we do is the exact time _something_ will happen.”

Dean raised his empty cup in Sam’s direction. “You ain’t wrong ‘bout that.”

“I’ll look, but there’s no guarantee I’ll find anything,” Castiel said. “It’s strange. Everything is so quiet.”

“No doubt they’ve learned to go completely off the radar,” Sam said. “Or maybe everything really _is_ quiet.”

 

The uncertainty in his voice was far from comforting.

 

“Maybe they figured out how to hide from us. Took them long enough. Maybe they got together and used a spell or whatever.” Dean wouldn’t put it past them at this point. Nothing surprised him anymore when it came to the supernatural. Sam, however, wasn’t as open to the mock-theory as Dean had been.

“Too much effort,” he said. “It would be quicker to just hunt us down themselves.”

“That’s one theory crossed off the list.”

“They may be getting better at covering their tracks,” Castiel said. “Or, at least, hiding their trails from humans. If humans can’t find the evidence they leave behind, they won’t report about it. Therefore _we_ won’t hear about it. But that doesn’t explain why I can’t find anything…”

That was the likelier of the bunch. But how was it that they had managed to disappear off the radar so quickly?

“Well, if you’re looking for something to do, there’s always one of the storage rooms that needs clearing out.” Sam glanced up briefly from his laptop. “There’s one right next to the room where we found Dorothy and the Wicked Witch. You know, room twenty-eight?”

“Got it. We were goin’ to do that anyway,” Dean said as he thought back. Room twenty-eight in itself had been a mess, so he couldn’t begin to think of how bad the room next to it would be. “How’d you know it was a storage room, anyway?”

“I took a look in there awhile ago, but I never got the chance to clean it out.”

“Got too lazy?”

Sam avoided his eyes. He instead looked off somewhere behind Dean's shoulder. “Jack got sick,” he said after a moment of silence. “I _just—_ we didn’t have the time to worry about anything else.”

Dean followed his gaze: Jack was standing side-by-side with Castiel. They couldn’t hear what the two were talking about, but they were both smiling.

“Well, Jack is fine now,” Dean said, drawing Sam’s attention back to him. The faraway look in Sam’s eyes was replaced by something a little fonder, something gentler.

“You’re right.” Sam cleared his throat. As quickly as the change had overcome him, it was gone. “Now we can finally focus on that room. I’ll stay here and do research with Jack if you and Cas want to go check out what’s in there.”

Dean figured he had nothing better to do. How hard would cleaning a room be?

 

                                                                          

 

The first thing that Dean noticed was that the storage room was heavy with the smell of dust.

It tickled its way up his nose and threatened to make him sneeze; he somehow held back. There wasn’t a single bit of space left in the entire room; every wall and every inch of flooring was stacked with boxes upon boxes of folders. Old, rotting desks were shoved into every corner, sagging under the weight of untouched gas lamps. A thick layer of grime covered the single couch that was pushed up against the wall. Even Castiel wrinkled his nose at the smell.

“When Sam said that there was a lot to clean up, I didn’t think he meant it.” Dean’s disbelieving stare swept the room. There was no way they would be able to clean all of this. He peeled a long strip of green paint off of the wall; it came away easily. He held it up for Castiel to see.

“This place needs a good sand ‘n’ paint. What do you think?”

Castiel gave the room a cursory glance. “Most of the rooms do. But it’s only a storage room, so it is not as though anyone will come in here often.”

Castiel had a point. Dean, in an act he knew would annoy the daylights out of Sam, threw the strip of paint to the floor.

It wasn’t his problem anymore.

The old paintwork wasn’t the only thing strange about the room. It was filled head to toe with strange artifacts and even stranger looking weapons. Some were in boxes, other in glass cases, but many were simply lying about.

“Look at this thing.” Dean picked up a funky looking mask; one side of its face was heavily marred. The other was suspiciously smooth. “Ugly as _hell_. It gives me Phantom of the Opera vibes.”

“It’s also _dangerous.”_ Castiel raised an eyebrow in Dean’s direction. “Put it down before something happens.”

“Like what? I’ll get turned into a monkey?” Dean grinned wide, but still set the mask carefully down. If Castiel was right, why was it lying around? It should be kept somewhere safe. When he voiced these thoughts aloud, Castiel didn’t seem to know the answer either.

“To be fair,” he said, “the bunker is considered safe in and of itself. Maybe they simply trusted each other not to touch artifacts?”

Dean let out a low whistle, interrupted only by the beginning of a laugh. “Didn’t know you were up for sass today, Cas.”

Aside from the shaking of his head, Castiel didn’t respond; absorbed already by the piles and piles of boxes, he was distracted enough to forget Dean was there in the first place. Dean came across more strange objects than he thought he would, which was alarming enough to begin with.

The mask was the first of many odd things he found: he uncovered a musical box that refused to open, no matter how hard Dean tried to pry the hinges open; He found a plastic-covered bow that looked as though it belonged to a game character; a lamp that glowed everytime he clapped three times in a row — he was quick to stop when it started making an ominous growling noise — and a container filled with ‘face peeler.’

 

Dean wasn’t sure what that meant, and he wasn’t eager to find out either.

 

Then came his most intriguing find of them all.

Partially hidden by the shallow niche it sat in was a handheld harp. It was a tarnished gold, and it looked as though it needed a good polish — dirt was crammed into every crevice.

“Hey, Cas. You’re an angel. You reckon you could play?” Dean jerked a thumb in the direction of the instrument. Before Dean could touch it, however, Castiel snatched his hand away.

“It’s cursed,” he said when Dean jumped back. “Look, it’s labelled.” He reached out to tap the tiny labelled card in front of the harp.

The tiny sign read:

 

_Nsuo’s Harp_

 

Dean flipped the card over to reveal the other side, which told him all he needed to know — one touch and he would be playing that harp until his fingers wore down to the bone. With a growing nauseated feeling in his gut, Dean set the slip of paper back down.

“Thanks for the warning,” he said to Castiel, who was too busy sorting through yet another pile of odds and ends to notice. His reply sounded absentminded.

“And I can’t play the harp, anyway.”

“How do you know? Might be a natural talent.”

“I’ve never had the occasion to try.”

“Give it a try now.”

“I value my fingers, but thank you for the offer,” was Castiel’s dry reply. “If you ignore the dangerous artifacts, there are certain objects in here that would come in handy.” He picked up a small pouch. “This is filled with fairy dust. It makes for a good ingredient for potions and the like. It can used to both stun an enemy and revive someone who has fallen unconscious. A bit like some human spices do. And this…” — he picked up what Dean had first thought to be a jar of glittery water — “a jar of siren tears. They’re incredibly rare.”

“Sam’s really been gettin’ you into those books, huh?”

“I’m an _angel,_ Dean. I’ve been alive for thousands of years. I can assure you, I’ve known this for quite some time.”

Dean tended to forget that sometimes, only to be painfully reminded of it later on.

“What about this, then?” He pointed to a jar filled with a mysterious salve. “Go on, Sherlock. Figure _this_ out _.”_

After prying off the lid, Castiel gave it a cautious sniff.

“It’s petroleum jelly,” he said. He wiped the dust off of the jar, where the name was written faintly across the front. The print read:

 _‘Vaseline_.’

“Of course it is,” Dean muttered under his breath. He swore he saw Castiel bite back a smile.

“Anything that you think could be a spell or potion ingredient, leave it in a pile. We can sort through it later.” Castiel left a small box and the bag of fairy dust by the door. He gestured to the newly-made pile. “Anything, as long as it hasn’t got a hazardous warning.” With a pointed look, he said, “That includes things like that harp. If it looks dangerous, leave it alone until we can take a better look at it.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Dean gave Castiel a mock salute.

“I can start on the right side if you start on the left.”

“‘Course.”

“I don’t know if you’ve seen the left side yet, Dean.” Castiel looked pointedly over Dean’s shoulder. The look in his eyes told Dean all he needed to know: he wasn’t getting the lighter task. Dean followed Castiel’s line of sight to the left side of the room; it was almost smothered by the sheer amount of storage containers.

 

He certainly had his work cut out for him.

 

“Too late to swap?”

Castiel’s smile was a little too sly for Dean’s liking. “Of course. There’s a broom in the corner if you need it.”

Dean could see it hidden behind a tall vase in a glass case; it was only a matter of reaching it through the towering piles of junk that was the issue.

“How do they even have so much stuff? It’s like a bomb hit the place,” Dean complained as he pushed past the piles until he could reach the broom. The broom was rotting away at the base, and it was in no better shape than the rest of the room. As Dean began to sweep, a few bristles fell free.

“Years of collecting,” Castiel said. He examined the jar closely before setting it down again. “They had a lot of people coming in and out of here. It’s strange there aren’t more objects in here, truth be told.”

“You say ‘objects’ like this junk is worthwhile.”

“Some of it is. Some of it isn’t. That’s what we have to sort through it for: we need to identify the important artifacts.”

“Startin’ to sound a lot like Sammy, Cas. You should’ve come down here with _him.”_ The bottom of the broom broke off.

 _“_ Sam and I are close, but not as close as _we_ are. I prefer spending this time with you.”

Castiel either didn’t understand the weight of his words or he didn’t care; Dean could only stare, stunned for a moment, before he continued sweeping.

 

He didn’t notice the head of the broom was missing.

 

Dean only realised the broom was broken when he found the leftover bristles next to a clear case filled to the brim with dried-out flower petals. Setting the broom aside, Dean carefully picked it up. The label was far too faded for him to read, but he heeded Castiel’s earlier advice and didn’t open the container. He would mention it to Sam, though — those petals could be a rare ingredient of some kind.

Dean set it aside to find later. He saw Castiel give it a curious look, but he otherwise made no motion to investigate it further.

In the midst of his cleaning, something caught Dean’s eye: a box filled with folders upon folders of information, creature glossaries, and the like. Notes were crammed into every spare inch of the box. It was near to overflowing.

“Look at this.” Dean heaved the box onto the nearest table. “Sam would blow a _load_ if he saw this.”

The best part — or, in Dean’s opinion, the worst part — was the fact that this was just one of many. This would keep them busy for _weeks._

Castiel pulled one of the folders free. His eyes scanning, he said, “These are old studies and experiments that the Men of Letters conducted.”

“Like what?” Dean craned his neck to see what Castiel was reading to no avail.

“Creating synthetic blood for newly-turned vampires.” Castiel grabbed another folder. “Potions to temporarily take away magical abilities…”

“Wow, I wasn’t wrong. This’ll keep Sam busy for _years.”_

Castiel didn’t answer. He was engrossed in an open folder. Dean wondered what was intriguing enough to capture even Castiel’s attention; his curiosity, impossible to ignore, urged him to find out.

“What’d you find?” Dean craned to read over Castiel’s shoulder. To his surprise, Castiel jammed the folder shut and tucked it under his arm, away from prying eyes — more specifically, away from Dean.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Feelin’ a little secretive, Cas?”

The tension fell away from Castiel’s shoulders. “You startled me. I wasn’t expecting you to come over as quickly as you did.”

Startling Castiel? That was something new. It sounded like a blatant lie, and Dean had heard his fair share of those in his lifetime.

His curiosity unsatiated, Dean turned away. He could see Castiel slipping the folder back into a box out of the corner of his eye; he would look at it later, if he ever got the chance.

“If you want to start sorting everything into piles, that would make it easier to clean up the place later.” Dean heaved one of the boxes onto the floor. Its fragile cardboard sides threatened to collapse, but they surprisingly held firm.  
“What sort of piles?”  
“Junk and not-junk,” Dean said. “Anything you think is dangerous, leave it alone, I guess. Anything that is safe, put it on the opposite side of the room. We can grab a couple of rags and start wiping everything down once we have the piles sorted.”  
Castiel made a contemplative hum, low in the back of his throat. “It makes sense to do it that way.” He turned away to examine an odd glass ball. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

  
And that was the last thing either of them said for a long while.

 

They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they worked. Dean, the remnants of the broom in hand, attempted to sweep up what dust he could. On the opposite side of the room, Castiel was carefully moving one object after another. Occasionally, he would pause, study the item for a bit longer, then leave it alone. There must have been far more dangerous things in here than he had first thought.  
Dean’s hands were covered with grime by the time they finally stopped. Sweat beaded at his temples. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and left a smear of dirt across his forehead.  
Per usual, Castiel was fine.

Dean brushed his hands off on his worn jeans. Dusty fingerprints were left behind in long streaks.

“You ready for lunch?” he asked Castiel. Castiel, who had been closely examining a glass case, finally looked over.

“Of course.” He tore his gaze away. “It’s interesting down here. I lost track of time.”

“Remind me to bring a dustpan and broom next time, though. I actually want to clean this place up.” Dean gestured around the room. “Let’s go.”

As he turned back to the door, dodging the piled up boxes, a spider ran past him. He jerked to an abrupt halt.

He had forgotten that Castiel was right behind him.

Castiel’s chest slammed hard against Dean’s shoulder, sudden enough to send Dean staggering forward. He caught himself at the last second by throwing his hand back and grabbing Castiel’s elbow.

“ _Whoa_ , Cas. Personal space. You don’t have to be right up my ass.” After righting himself, Dean took a step back. Castiel moved away.

“My apologies,” he said, sounding far from sorry. “I didn’t realise I was so close.”

Dean gave him a sidelong glance that didn’t go unnoticed; Castiel raised an eyebrow in Dean’s direction.

As they left the room, Dean’s chest ached liked he had been kicked in the gut; he couldn't place why.

Speculation would do him no good.

Food, however, would.

 

 

                                                                        

 

“How’d it go?” Sam asked the moment Dean set foot in the kitchen, Castiel close behind him. Sam’s laptop was open in front of him, and an empty cup sat beside it. He must have been here since they had started to clean the storage room, Dean realised.

“Too much stuff down there, man. It’ll take years to get the dust off half that junk.”

Dean made a beeline for the fridge; he was sure there was some leftover pizza hanging around. “ _Aha!_ ” He grinned and pulled the last three slices of cheese pizza out of the cardboard box. Luck was on his side today; his stomach grumbled in agreement. “You want any?”

Sam shook his head. “I already ate.”

Too hungry to bother with the microwave, Dean handed off one of the cold slices to Castiel, who took it with no complaints. Somehow, though Dean wasn’t sure when, it had become commonplace for him to nudge food in Castiel’s direction; it made him feel just that tiny bit more settled when he didn’t feel as though Castiel was boring holes into the back of his skull while he ate.

“What now?” Dean asked through a mouthful of cheese. “What’d you find?”

“Nothing.” Sam’s jaw tightened by a scant inch. “Absolutely _nothing._ I don’t understand where everything has gone. _It’s—_ it’s like the supernatural was wiped off the face of the _planet_.”

Dean understood his frustration; he ignored it in favour of biting the crust off of his pizza. “Better hope so, ‘cause I ain’t liking the alternative.”

 

None of them were.

 

“I think I might have found something.”

Jack, clutching a newspaper in hand, came to join them at the table. Spreading the paper out in front of them, he pointed to an article in the corner and said, “this looks like something.”

While Sam took a closer look, Dean bumped his shoulder against Castiel’s.

“How much you willing to bet that it ain’t anything _spooky_?” He asked, looking over at Castiel; Castiel was already watching him.

“Have faith, Dean. They’ll find something.”

“Best to take care of your gear while we still have the chance, just in case we _do_ find something,” Sam said. “Seriously, we might be stuck here for awhile. Clean everything up so we can just up and go if we have to.”

Dean had to admit that that was a pretty good idea. He had nothing better to do. “I think I like it right here,” he joked, patting his chair. Sam cast a sidelong look in Dean’s direction. Dean held his hands up in defeat.

“ _Whoa_ there, Sammy. I’m _goin’_.”

 

His sawn-off shotgun _did_ need a good cleaning, after all.

 

After leaving the kitchen, Dean made his way down the hallway. The sound of their voices — mostly Sam and Jack, as Castiel had been simply listening at the time — faded to silence. It wasn’t long before Dean reached the door to his room.

His bed was still unmade, and it looked as warm and tempting as it had been earlier in the day.

Dean ignored it in favour of reaching under the bed frame. His fingers searched blindly until, finally, he felt the familiar handle of his sawn-off shotgun. As he pulled it out, he was soon to realise it was in worse shape than he feared: it was as muddy as it had been the last time he had seen that — that had been during their messy lamia hunt.

The gun had not fared well, Dean thought as he scratched a flaking clump of dried mud off of the barrel with the corner of his thumb nail.

If his gun was this bad, how bad was everything else?

It took a moment of rummaging around before he found it: an old blade in his desk drawer that was in desperate need of a good clean and sharpening. He found the broken half of a sharpening stone in the very back of the drawer.

Convenient, yet appreciated nonetheless.

Knife, shotgun, sharpening stone, and old rag in hand, Dean gave his room one last check before he left. On the way to the war room — an odd name, but one that Dean had become strangely fond of — Dean found Castiel in the hallway. He wondered if he had been waiting.

“Cleaning already?” Castiel’s gaze dropped down to the knife in Dean’s hand.

“Just in case something pops up and we gotta jet,” Dean said in response to Castiel’s questioning look. Under his breath, he added, “if anything pops up, that is…”

“I’ll help,” Castiel said, more-so as a statement than as a request. “Do you have anything else?”  

“Knock yourself out.” Dean shrugged. He had no real reason to say no, and who was he to refuse an extra set of hands? “Here, take this…”

Rather than giving Castiel the blade, Dean decided to let him take the shotgun. Changing things up every once in awhile never hurt anyone.

Castiel rubbed his thumb over a particularly bad stain.

“Yeah, good luck.” Dean grimaced. “It’s gonna be a bit of work.”

Rather than look discouraged, Castiel gave a contemplative hum as he looked over the shotgun once more.

 

Dean knew then that his bait had been taken.

 

With Dean leading the way, the two of them headed back to the war room — neither Sam nor Jack were there. They found a table near to the back of the room, where they could work without interruption.

“While we’re here,” Castiel said as he pulled out a chair, “we need to discuss inventory. Do you have that rag, by the way?”

Dean gave it a moment of thought.

“We need to stock up on more salt,” he said, passing the rag over to Castiel. “Never thought _we_ could run low. We’ve got more salt than the damn Pacific usually.”

“We _do_ use a lot.” Castiel didn’t look up from the sawn-off shotgun; he was cleaning the — admittedly stubborn — crusted over remnants of lamia blood off of the barrel. A dried piece flaked off and floated down to the table.

“You’d think we would have enough of that stuff, though.” Dean drew the sharpening stone along the edge of the knife with a satisfying ringing sound. It wasn’t as damaged as he had first thought.

“You could always look in the storage rooms. The Men of Letters would have a secret stash somewhere.”

“This place is _massive,_ Cas. It would take years that I don’t have to even scratch the surface of what is in these rooms. It ain’t worth searchin’ through. I’ll just head on down to the store later,” Dean said. He set down the stone to examine the blade. The knife was already looking sharper than it had in years.

“It would be easier with the four of us.”

“Sam is still searchin’ for a case, and Jack wants to help. We ain’t goin’ to be seeing much of them for a few days. It’s just you and me for now; two people searching through those rooms? It’s askin’ for trouble.” Just as he finished speaking, a sharp pain lanced through his fingertip. Dean jerked his hand back. Blood welled up from the fresh cut, and he watched as it began to sluggishly leak down his finger. He swore under his breath. He _knew_ he should have been more focused on that sharpening stone

“ _Dammit_.” He stuck his finger in his mouth. Castiel looked up, his eyes at once concerned.

“What happened?” He asked as he carefully set the shotgun down. He craned his neck to see what had caught Dean’s attention.

“I cut my finger on the damn knife,” was Dean’s reply. It came out muffled, garbled because of the finger in his mouth.

Worry put a deep crease between Castiel’s brows. “Are you all right?”

‘C’mon, Cas. It ain’t so bad.” Dean finally pulled his hand away to inspect the cut; it was small, but painful. The tiny ones tended to hurt the most.

Still, the tiny frown on Castiel’s face lingered. He leaned forward to take Dean’s hand ever-so-carefully. He gently touched the tip of Dean’s finger and, for a moment, Dean swore he could feel the warmth of Castiel’s grace.

When Castiel pulled away, the cut was gone.

Dean glanced down at his finger; it was as flawless as it had been only minutes earlier. There certainly were perks to being best friends with an angel, he mused. He didn’t think he would ever get over what Castiel was capable of.

“Thanks, Cas,” he said, finally looking up. Castiel offered him a smile, and said nothing more.

While Dean continued to clean the blade — carefully, this time — Castiel peeled the remaining stubborn remains of dirt off of the shotgun.

They fell into a companionable silence; it wasn’t awkward, but still somewhat of a comfort. They didn’t talk, nor did they need to. They enjoyed each other’s company all the same, with or without idle chatter.

 

Dean wondered if that was what made spending time with Castiel so easy.

 

“Might ask Sammy if we should just head out and go drivin’ until we find something. It would give us something to do.”

“It might be easier to find a case that way, though gas would get expensive.”

Dean shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“You have yet to cease to surprise me, Dean. You’ll find something. I know it.”

Castiel continued speaking before Dean could ask what he meant. “What do you think?” he asked. When Dean looked up, he realised Castiel was holding out the shotgun for him to take. The overhead light made its new polished steel gleam, and every trace of lamia blood was completely gone; Castiel had done an impressive job, if Dean did say so himself. It looked almost new.

Dean took the gun with a pleased hum, looking over it with a critical eye. “Lookin’ good, Cas.”

“Did you expect any less?” the corner of Castiel’s lips quirked in the beginning of a smirk-like smile.

“No, but…” Dean leaned forward to speak in a conspirator’s whisper. “If I said yes?”

“I’ll just have to prove you wrong again.” Castiel raised an eyebrow in the direction of the blade in Dean’s hand. The expectant look on his face was akin to that of a challenge; Dean felt the start of a smile begin to break out across his face.

“Gettin’ a little cocky, Cas. Feel free to ‘prove me wrong’ if you’re up to the task. But if you’re too chicken… I wouldn’t blame you for backin’ out.” He held the knife out, handle first, towards Castiel. “Take it, then.”

Before Castiel could do just that, the sound of approaching footsteps made the both of them pause.

Dean was almost annoyed by the interruption. His smile faltered, though not by much.

“We need to restock the cupboards,” Sam commented as he joined them in the library. His arms were filled with newspapers, and his laptop was balanced precariously on top of the pile. “There’s nothing but dust-bunnies.”

Dean’s first reaction was to claim it was someone else’s turn to buy the groceries. That was the very last thing he wanted to do right now. He opened his mouth to argue — then, he was struck with an idea, and his mouth snapped shut as quickly as it had opened; he needed to get out of the house. If the supernatural wouldn’t come to them, maybe they could go to it.

 

Leaving the bunker would be a start. A small one, but a start nonetheless.

 

“I can pick a few things up at the store,” he said, a little too eagerly for his liking. Sam raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“You actually _want_ to go? I thought I’d have to fight you tooth and nail.”

Feigning nonchalance, Dean handed the blade to Castiel and said, “Got nothing better to do.”

“I can come,” Castiel said. He dropped the polishing rag to the tabletop. “It’ll be quicker. We could go out for lunch,” he suggested. “You look like you need to get out of here.”

And that, in Dean’s opinion, was a brilliant idea. He sat bolt upright in his chair.

“You’re a genius, Cas!” He already had a half-formed plan in his head of where to go. He knew a great pie place, or there was burgers instead. His mouth watered at the thought.

“You can’t take Cas. I need him for the research.” Sam’s head snapped up; his attention was finally away from his laptop. “I thought finding a case was our priority.”

“Right now my only priority is my _stomach._ We won’t be long. C’mon, Sammy. I’m hungry as all hell.”

Sam cast a helpless look in Castiel’s direction. “Cas?”

Castiel glanced over at Dean, then back to Sam. “I can do research while I’m out with Dean,” he offered. “I can take notes.”

Finally, Sam relented. It didn’t take much to convince him. After a promise from Castiel to help once he returned, Sam said, “ _Fine._ But remember this is important, too.”

With a smile a little-too-smug, Dean said, “I’ll bring something back for you.”

“Nah. I’m fine,” Sam said.

“Could you get some stuff for me?” Jack asked, looking up from his book. His eyes flickered from one man to the other.

“Of course,” Castiel said. “What do you need?”

While Castiel wandered off to find out what Jack wanted, Dean busied himself with shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He briefly wondered where the knife was. It was always practical to have a backup weapon — even a trip to the grocery store could get bloody on occasion.

The nearest grocery store was only a measly twenty-five minutes away — thirty-five if they got caught in traffic, which was unfairly often. It was close enough that it was easy to drive to, but far enough away that Dean wouldn’t be caught dead walking there.

It would be a different story if he got Castiel to carry all of the bags, though. It would be easy enough to convince him.

“You ready to go?” Dean called out to Castiel. Turning away from Jack, Castiel gave him a simple nod.

“We should be fine to go now. Does Sam need anything?”

“Just his usual rabbit food. He left a list on the table.” Dean found the aforementioned note on the end of the kitchen bench: it was just a grocery list written in Sam’s familiar scrawl.

“All right. We’re all ready to go.” Dean grabbed the note and handed it off to Castiel, who shoved it into one of his many coat pockets. “We won’t be long.”

“Stay safe. Find us a case,” Jack gave them a toothy grin.

“You too, kiddo. Don’t worry ‘bout us.” Under his breath, Dean added, “It’s only if we come back without a case that you start worryin’.”

 

From the sound of Jack’s distant laughter, Dean’s quip hadn’t been as quiet as he had hoped.

 

“You ready to go?” Dean ran a hand through his hair; the back of it was still damp. He caught Castiel staring at the back of his head and wondered if it was as messy as it felt.

“Yes, but…” Castiel began to reach into the inside of his coat.

“Yeah, Cas?” Dean rummaged around in his back pocket to grab his keys. Castiel was holding out the knife for Dean to take.

“I never had the chance to give this back,” he said.

“Keep it,” Dean said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’ll be handy.”

Castiel hesitated before he returned the knife to his pocket. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean shrugged. It really was no big deal. But to Castiel, it looked as though he had been given the world.

 

                                                                           

 

“You don’t normally want to do the grocery shopping.”

Castiel hadn’t asked a direct question, but his curiosity was thick in his voice regardless. Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while he thought.

He had no real reason to lie to Castiel, so he simply said, “I wanted to find something entertaining.”

To his surprise — or lack thereof — Castiel didn’t react. He nodded, as though that was the answer he had been expecting.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “With everything that’s going on — well, everything that’s _not_ going on — I’m surprised you didn’t leave sooner.”

“You ain’t the only one.”

“We’ll find a case.” The certainty in Castiel’s voice was a small comfort, but a comfort all the same. “Trust me. We always find one. As long as the world exists, there will always be something for the Winchesters to hunt.”

Dean couldn’t help but grin. “Nice pep talk, Cas.”

The quizzical frown he got in return just made him smile wider.

“So what about you?” he asked. “Why’d you want to come?”

Castiel shifted in his seat. “I was hoping I would find something that may lead us to a case,” he admitted.

“Oh, so you have ulterior motives? _Sneaky_ , Cas.”

“I wouldn’t say they’re ulterior motives, per say…” Castiel began to say. When Dean started to grin, Castiel’s mouth snapped shut.

“Works every time. You gotta stop fallin’ for my tricks.”

Castiel muttered something under his breath that Dean didn’t quite catch; it was quickly forgotten when the grocery store appeared in their line of sight up ahead.

 

It wasn’t as empty as Dean had hoped.

 

It was late in the afternoon, which meant the nearest school had let out; children swarmed the parking lot, hiding each and every parking bay from sight. Dean was sure he never would have found one if not for Castiel, who pointed one out at the last minute.

“Let’s make this quick,” Dean said as he parked the car. Castiel was looking at all the people with a grimace — he seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

They were greeted just outside the door by a sour-looking employee. His hair was flattened under an obnoxiously bright yellow hat, a sharp contrast to the dark glower on his face — his glare only deepened when Dean tried to give him a smile. Dean skirted around him as they walked through the glass doors. He didn’t know what the employee was angry about, and he wasn’t curious enough to find out.

Aside from a split second glance, Castiel didn’t pay the employee much attention either.

“Got the list?” Dean asked. Castiel pulled two scrap pieces of paper from his coat pocket.

“Sam gave one to me before he left one for you. He said you’d forget yours.”

“He knows me _too_ well.” Dean snatched one of the lists away.

They didn’t bother grabbing a basket or a shopping cart on the way in — they wouldn’t be getting much. As far as Dean knew, there were only a few things on the list to worry about.

“What first?” he asked Castiel. “I know Sam wanted apples…” he eyed the nearby apple stand. “Pre-bagged?” Before Castiel could answer, Dean thrust a bag of green apples into his arms. “Do you remember what Jack wanted? It wasn’t on the list.”

Castiel adjusted the apples in his grip. “Cereal, a few apples, and” — he began to smile — “some chocolate.”

“Nice to see I’ve got some influence on ‘im.”

“I think so, too — I’ve caught him up more than once at three-in-the-morning, hunched over a bowl of Cheerios.”  

The mere thought of it made Dean smile, too. He was extra vigilant in making sure he picked up cereal as they wandered past the dry foods aisle.

Much to his amusement, Dean found out that Castiel was capable of carrying an absurd amount of cereal boxes.

“Don’t forget the salt,” Castiel said as they passed by the aisle for herbs and spices. Dean swiped a few cheap bags of salt off of the shelf.

 

As a passing thought, he grabbed a bag of chives — didn’t Sam like adding those to his omelets?

 

“You want anything? Dean asked. “Seriously, grab anything you want.” When Castiel shook his head, Dean held up a packet of Pop-tarts and asked, “You sure?”

From over the top of the cereal boxes, Castiel gave him a surprisingly confused smile.

“We’re gonna need some comfort food to get us through this.”

Castiel, his arms laden with food, turned back to look at Dean. “Something will pop up eventually,” he said. “Though, I’m not sure why it’s so quiet…”

“I wish it wasn’t. I’m gettin’ a little stir-crazy.” Dean stared down at the eggs in the carton, then set it back down when he noticed two of them were cracked. Picking up the next box, he said, “I think we’re all in need of a hunt.”

“I think you’re right.”

After finding a carton of — thankfully unbroken — eggs, Dean shoved the shopping list into his back pocket and set off for the cash registers. Castiel followed close behind.

The cashier greeted them with a polite smile; she wore the same bright hat that they had seen the other employee wearing. Her blonde hair was neatly tucked back into a ponytail. The obnoxious hat aside, she was rather cute.

“How are you?” she asked as Castiel began to place the items in his arms onto the conveyor belt. While Castiel made small talk with the cashier, Dean continued to unload the bags of salt from his arms. They were heavier than expected, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

“That’s a lot of salt,” the cashier commented, opening a second bag; the first bag was full of salt alone. “You must go through a lot of it.”

“Big household. Need that sodium, y’know.” Dean leaned up against the register and flashed her a smile. Her cheeks blossomed pink.

“You wouldn’t happen to know of anything strange happening recently, would you?” Castiel asked abruptly. The cashier raised an eyebrow, her smile fading. Her hand hovered over the carton of eggs.

“‘Round here?” Her eyebrow lifted higher. “Nothing happens ‘round here. But there’s been a few murders here and there recently, but over in Louisiana and such. Why do you ask?” She continued to scan the items, albeit slower than she had been earlier.

“We’re just looking for a few—”

“He’s a bit of a conspiracy theorist,” Dean interjected. He had the strangest feeling Castiel was going to say something off. “He’s into this kind of stuff.”

Castiel gave him a frown. Dean simply shrugged.

The cashier didn’t let on that she was judging them — at least, not openly. Her eyebrows had yet to lower.

When the groceries were finally paid for — thirty-seven dollars and ninety-five cents in total, which Castiel made Dean count out down to the very cent — they left the store, groceries in hand. The plastic bags cut deep into Dean’s wrists. Castiel, however, didn’t seem to be fazed in the slightest.

 

Sometimes, Dean found himself envious of Castiel’s angelic strength.

 

“Careful what you say,” Dean said under his breath. “Might get the cops called on us if someone suspects someone is creepin’ around looking for murders.”

Castiel chewed on his lower lip as he thought Dean’s words over. “You’re right, but it might make things easier for us.”

“It doesn’t. Trust me, buddy. I’ve found out the hard way.” Dean readjusted his grip on the grocery bags.

The corner of Castiel’s lips twitched, as if holding back a smile. “I can take those for you,” he offered, gesturing to the bags in Dean’s hands. Dean waved him off as best he could.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said, ignoring the tingling in his fingertips. Castiel raised an eyebrow, but otherwise said nothing.

Dean’s wrists had been painfully close to a do-it-yourself amputation by the time they reached the Impala. All-too-thankfully, he dumped the bags into the trunk. Castiel followed suit, albeit with a touch more elegance than Dean.

“You want to grab a bite to eat?” Dean shut the trunk with a soft _‘click_.’

“If you would like to,” Castiel said. “Are you still hungry?”

“A man’s gotta eat.”

They found a cheap café just across from the grocery store. As old and beaten-down as it looked, it was far from unappealing. The faded wooden door reminded Dean, strangely enough, of gingerbread.

The sign overhanging the entryway door read:

 

_Nana’s Delights_

 

The smell of bacon wafted from the open doors, enticing them closer — or rather, it tempted _Dean_ closer. His mouth began to water.

“That smells _good.”_

“We can buy something from there if you’d like.”

“Hell, yeah. What do you want?” Dean asked. The sound of a tinkling bell welcomed them into the shop as they approached the counter.

“I’ll have what you’re getting,” Castiel said. “Remember to get something for Jack.”

Dean shrugged. “All right.”

After the cashier took their order — three classic burgers, all three with extra onions and cheese — they found a nearby table to wait. Dean’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. Sam really was missing out on some good food.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear — Dean’s phone vibrated with an incoming message.

 

_I forwarded a few articles to Cas._

_Sam._

 

“Sam might have found something,” Dean told Castiel, and he shoved his phone into his pocket once more. “Did he message you too?”

Castiel nodded and pulled his phone out from his jacket. “He sent me some articles relating to a potential case.”

“Sammy’s pretty set on finding a case, huh?”

“Order forty-seven,” the server called out before Castiel could answer. Dean began to stand, but Castiel waved him off.

“I’ll get it,” he said, rising to his feet. Before Dean could argue, Castiel was making his way over to the counter. He watched as Castiel handed over the exact amount of money — it was a quirk leftover from his days working the register, Dean supposed.

“You want to sit outside?” Dean gestured to the direction of the door. “It’s a nice day, I guess.”

“It _is_ nice outside. I’d like that.” Castiel’s smile brought a gentleness to his eyes.

They found a table just outside of the café, pushed up against the window.

Castiel pulled one of the burgers out of the paper bag and passed it across the table to Dean, who accepted it with an eagerness that did not surprise.

“Bon appétit.” Dean leaned in to knock their burgers together in a mock-toast.

 

It earned him a smile.

 

These were Dean’s favourite kind of days — warm with blue skies and not a cloud in sight, the days where they could sit and eat together without talking. Castiel must have been thinking along similar lines as Dean; he was staring up at the sky, a smile on his lips. He was squinting against the bright glare of the sun, yet he made no effort to look away. Occasionally, he would look back down to take a bite of his burger, only to look back up again.

Dean wondered if Castiel could see something that he himself couldn’t see.

Their eyes met, and Dean looked away. He took as big of a bite as he could of his burger and pretended he hadn’t just been caught staring.

“I’m sure Sam will have found out more about that case by the time we get back.”

The two of them had been quiet for so long that the sound of Castiel’s voice sounded oddly out of place.

“Jack seems pretty excited.” Dean licked a smear of sauce from his thumb. “He’s hoardin’ a whole bunch of books in his room. Tryin’ to help out Sam, I guess.”

Castiel’s eyes crinkled up at the corners in a fond smile. “He wants to prove himself — to you, mostly.”

Dean paused. “To me? Why me?” he asked. He had the sneaking suspicion he knew where this was going, and he certainly wasn’t eager to reach the final destination. His burger suddenly tasted more like lead than it did meat.

“He’s always felt as though he needs to do better around you.”

“En route to Lecture Town,” Dean mumbled through a mouthful of food. Before Castiel could say anything, Dean cleared his throat. “He’s a good kid, all right? I might’ve made a mistake by jumpin’ the gun when I first met ‘im.”

“Is Dean Winchester _apologising?”_

“That’s as close to an apology as you’re goin’ to get, buddy. Take it or leave it.”

To Dean’s surprise, Castiel didn’t frown. “Consider it taken,” he said, then he took a bite out of his burger to hide his budding smile.

 

Then, over Castiel’s shoulder, something caught Dean’s eye — or rather, a pair of women.

 

They had yet to notice him watching them as they approached: a blonde and a brunette, as tall as they were gorgeous, were making their way down the street. They must have been siblings; they looked awfully alike. They both had the same angular nose and sharp cheekbones.

Dean’s interest was piqued as quickly as his hunger had been. He leaned over to give Castiel a nudge.

“They’re gorgeous,” he said, his eyes still locked on the women. He didn’t see Castiel’s reaction, but he could only assume he hadn’t disagreed; Castiel hadn’t said anything at all.

“Wouldn’t mind joinin’ us for lunch, would you?” Dean offered the brunette a wide, friendly smile. “It’s feelin’ a lil’ lonely over here. We could use the company.”

Other than the baleful look the woman gave him, Dean was otherwise ignored. Her friend didn’t so much as look his way as they continued past him, Dean’s eyes trailing them as they went. Castiel had been dutifully quiet the entire time, and it wasn’t until the women had disappeared from sight that he finally spoke.

“They hate when you do that.”

Dean glanced over at Castiel, whose eyes were on him rather than the long-gone women.

“Do what?”

“Harass them.”

“Just a lil’ fun, Cas.” Dean waved his concerns off with a dismissive hand. “I ain’t harassin’ ‘em.”

“They certainly don’t see it that way.”

Judging from the tight-lipped smile he got in return, Dean knew Castiel didn’t believe a single word he was saying. Rather than push the issue, Dean returned his attention back to his half-eaten food. He wasn’t as hungry as he had been a moment earlier — Castiel’s reprimand had quelled his appetite. There was a lump in his throat that wouldn’t move.

He buried his face in the crook of his arm and coughed; the sticky feeling didn’t budge.

“Are you okay?” Castiel touched a hand to Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Just got a tickle in my throat.” Dean lowered his arm when he was sure the coughing had finally abated. He grabbed a tissue just in case. Castiel studied him for a moment, his eyes searching, before he finally looked away.

“It’s a nice day today,” Castiel told him. He was staring up, directly towards the cloudless sky. “Blue skies foretell good news.”

Dean hoped he was right. “You reckon Sam would have found anything by the time we get back?”

“More than likely. He’s found a lot so far.”

“You ain’t wrong,” was what Dean tried to say. His words got caught in his throat, and what came out instead was a bloodied cough.

 

His blood turned to ice in his veins.

 

Castiel had turned around, watching the streets around them, and he hadn’t noticed the look of horror on Dean’s face. Snatching the blood-stained tissue off of the table, Dean shoved it deep into his pocket. His heart began to jackhammer inside of his chest.

Blood was never a good sign, especially not in his line of work. He wasn’t injured. He wasn’t sick. So why now of all times?

He should have known it was too quiet recently — nothing came without a catch.

When his heart was no longer jammed up his windpipe, Dean chanced a look out of the corner of his eye; Castiel was deep in thought. It was best to let him think for a moment rather than disturb him.

It was a miracle he hadn’t noticed the blood.

 

Almost _too_ lucky.

 

“Let’s go.” Dean stood up abruptly. The remains of his food — a quarter of his burger — remained untouched.

“You don’t want to finish eating?” Castiel asked, rising to his feet to follow Dean. His food was mostly gone, too. The paper bag with Jack’s burger was clutched in his hand.

“Nope.” Dean kept his words clipped and his sentences short for fear he would cough again. His stomach rolled with nausea at the thought.

“Are you all right?”

“‘Course,” Dean said with an easy grin. It felt stiff upon his lips.

A beat passed, then Castiel said, “you’re upset.”

“No, I ain’t.”

“ _Dean_.” Castiel reached out to touch his hand to Dean’s shoulder. At the last minute, he thought better of it; his hand dropped back down to his side. “You know if anything is wrong, you can tell me.”

Was Dean imagining the plea in his voice?

“Nothing’s wrong, Cas.”

 

They didn’t talk on the drive home.

 

Dean drove with only his thoughts and the radio to keep him company. Castiel was oddly silent; whether he noticed Dean’s odd mood or it was something else entirely, Dean wasn’t sure. Either way, it kept him preoccupied.

By the time Castiel spoke again, Dean had almost forgotten he was there.

“Did something happen?”

Dean’s fingers grew tight upon the steering wheel, and the leather creaked in protest. “No.”

Castiel didn’t speak after that.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s chest still ached by the time they got home.

The drive home had been quiet, and Castiel’s attempts to start a conversation were met with a chilling silence. They dragged the groceries up from the garage without saying a word to each other.

That suited Dean just fine.

Sam didn’t look up from his laptop as Dean and Castiel hauled the bags into the room. “How’d it go?

“Just fine.” Dean watched Castiel carry the rest of the groceries into the kitchen. “I think we got everything.”

“Apples?”

“Check.”

“Salt?”

“‘Course.”

“A new broom? Jack accidentally broke the last one.”

Dean smacked his palm to his forehead. “I knew we were forgettin’ something.”

Sam waved him off. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s not desperate.”

“So how’d he break it, again?”

“He accidentally got one of those sticky hands stuck to the ceiling and tried to get it down with the broom. The broomhead broke off, and the hand is still up there.”

Dean snorted. “It’ll fall on him in the middle of the night. I’ll get it.”

He saw Sam roll his eyes.

“Where is Jack, anyway?”

“The library,” Sam said. “Doing research.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Smart kid.”

“Take notes, Dean.”

Dean ignored him to instead gesture to the laptop. “Give the poor thing a break. Probably _dying_ for a break.”

Sam shut the lid of his laptop a little too hard. “That’s all we’ve had: breaks. We just need _something_ . Even just… I don’t _know._ A vampire.”

“Are you searchin’ locally or all ‘round the place?”

“Locally, but I’ve started looking for anything farther away.”

“Any luck?”

“Not yet.”

Sam’s words were becoming shorter and shorter with every response. Dean figured he would leave him alone for now.

“I’m goin’ to go find Cas, yeah?”

 

Sam gave him an absent-minded nod. Dean took that as his cue to leave.

 

Dean found Castiel in the kitchen, packing away the last of the groceries. He put the last of the cereal away in the cupboard, then stood back as if admiring his work.

It was then that he noticed Dean.

Castiel greeted Dean with a tentatively warm smile — their early clash was quickly forgotten. A quarter pot of coffee sat waiting beside him, as though Castiel had been expecting him. Dean knew he had been. He stifled a grin at the thought.

“Hey, Cas. I was hoping you'd made coffee.” He reached across the kitchen table for the coffee pot and the cup beside it.

“I didn’t make it. Sam did.” Castiel’s welcoming smile faltered for a brief moment as he took in Dean’s strained smile. “You don’t look very well.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean playfully held a hand over his chest, as if Castiel’s words had wounded him. That earned him a tiny smile.

“You weren’t very well this morning either,” Castiel commented offhandedly. He caught Dean’s eye; the look on his face seemed to ask if something was wrong.

Dean’s hand almost wandered to his chest, but he managed to shift the motion into a casual shrug before Castiel noticed. “Nothing bad. Nothing I can’t handle, of course.”

Castiel’s brows pinched in worry. “Are you hurt?”

“Nah.” Dean dropped his hand back down to the table. “Just hope some son-of-a-bitch demon didn’t do some damage that’s comin’ back to kick my ass.”

“I could take a look if you’d like.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dean waved him off. “It’s nothing a little aspirin won’t fix.”

If Castiel doubted his words, he certainly didn’t make it obvious. He kept his lips pressed tightly together and said nothing.

 

What Dean was leaving unsaid, however, was the fact that something was off. More than off — something was _wrong_.

 

Castiel seemed to realise that the topic was as good as dead, for he dropped it as quickly as it had arisen. He shifted his eyes away from Dean to stare down at the cup in his hands.

“Sam thinks he found a case,” he said. “He was searching through articles this morning.”

“I didn’t hear about this,” Dean said with a frown. “I was just with him.” While not particularly odd, it was normally Dean who Sam approached about potential cases.

As if reading his mind, Castiel said, “He didn’t tell me about it. I saw it on his laptop just then.”

That made more sense. False alarms had never been Sam’s style anyhow, especially considering the recent severe lack of cases; he didn’t want to get their hopes up. No wonder he hadn’t mentioned anything yet.

Dean reached the coffee pot to refill his cup, only to find it empty. He hadn’t realised he had drunk so much coffee until now. “What did you see? Anything interestin’?”

“Nothing we haven’t seen before.” Castiel’s eyes trailed him as he stood to make his way over to the coffee machine. “Just a series of mysterious deaths.”

Dean waited for him to continue, but Castiel left it at that. Perplexed, Dean turned to raise an eyebrow in his direction.

“Thanks for the details, Cas.”

Castiel gave a sort of helpless shrug. “That’s all I know. I didn’t have a chance to read anything beyond that.”

It was more than they had found in days, better news than they’d had in weeks.

 

Dean could only hope that Castiel had truly seen what he believed to be a new case.

 

Dean voiced this thought aloud to Castiel, and Castiel’s eyebrows pinched tight together.

“I’m sure it’s something,” he said. “Though, I’m having some doubts now…”

Dean checked the coffee machine for beans while he spoke. It was full. “Knowin’ Sammy, he found something.”

“It did look as though he was onto something.”

“For the sake of our damned sanity, I hope you’re right.” Dean spared Castiel a glance, then turned the coffee machine on. The low buzzing filled the silence in the room.

There was the sound of a sharp inhale, then Castiel said, “I believe I know what Sam found.”

He stopped there, as though trying to tempting Dean into conversation. His interest piqued, Dean turned back to look at him. “Don’t go holdin’ back on me now.”

“There’s a pattern in the deaths. Different locations, but the same circumstances.”

“So our killer ain’t so sneaky.”

“Intelligent would be a better word,” Castiel said. “Its pattern has been keeping its cover so far.”

The soft sound of the timer flickering off on the coffee machine silenced the words on the tip of Dean’s tongue. He wondered if Castiel was right: would this creature be smarter than any other they had encountered before?

He returned to the table with a full pot of fresh coffee this time. He offered some to Castiel, who politely declined.

It was his loss, Dean thought with a shrug. He held the cup close to his face and took a deep, calming breath; coffee was the cure to everything, he was sure of it.

 

If only it could be the cure for what was wrong with him.

 

Castiel knew something was wrong. Dean wasn’t sure how he had found out, but he was determined to be more careful than ever. Castiel was far from stupid — he would figure it out if Dean didn’t watch his every step.

Clearing his throat, Dean jerked his head in the direction of the fridge and asked, “you want anything from the fridge?”  
“You just ate,” Castiel said. His eyes followed Dean as he headed over to the kitchen counter.  
“And now I want to eat again. I didn’t think this was a judgement zone.” Dean busied himself with searching through the freezer. The mere thought of attempting to force himself though another bowl of oatmeal was gag-worthy. He pushed the ice blocks aside and finally found the bacon. It was hidden at the very back. Dean could have laughed at Sam’s poor attempts at hiding it.

“I have good news,” Sam said the moment he set foot in the kitchen. Jack was not far behind him. “Put the bacon back. I’ll make some toast, then tell you.”

“Cool.” With great reluctance, Dean forced himself to put the bacon back into the fridge.

His first thought was that Sam wanted to double-down their efforts to find a case. Had Castiel been wrong about him finding something? But the look on Sam’s face gave Dean the feeling it was much bigger news than that. It had him on the edge of his seat until finally, toast in hand, Sam was pulling out a chair at the table.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Sam warned as he slid a plate in front of Dean.  “But I think I might have found us a case — well, Jack did. He found the article.”

Jack’s proud smile said it all.

At long last, the stagnant air in the bunker was replaced with something else entirely — the buzz of eager anticipation. The toast was quickly forgotten in favour of leaning around the table to sneak a glance at Sam’s laptop; even from as far away as he was, Dean could see that opened articles by the dozen had filled up the tab bar.

 

Sam was onto something, that much was clear.

 

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner, you two?” Dean busied himself with taking a bite out of his toast.

“We had to be sure,” Jack told him. “Just in case it wasn’t anything.”

“Didn’t want to set off a false alarm,” Sam said through mouthful of toast. He was distracted by one of the many articles open on his laptop. “So get this: five bodies have been found so far, yet no clue as to what is actually causing the death. No signs of a struggle, or any wounds. They were just found dead in their hotel rooms.”

“Couldn’t that be just a normal death though?”

Sam shook his head. “All of the victims had these things in common: they were found covered in bodily fluids, their blood work showed startlingly high levels of testosterone, and they were _all_ found in motel rooms. That’s not exactly _normal.”_

“That’s normal for _us_.” Dean craned his neck to read over Sam’s shoulder; all he managed to see was a black-and-white photo of a motel sectioned off with police tape. “So, what? You think it’s worth checkin’ out?”

He hated to get his hopes up, but the look on Sam’s face was one Dean recognised well: he knew Sam had found them a case before Sam had even verbally confirmed it.

“Definitely. The thing is” — the crease between Sam’s eyebrows deepened — “is that whatever this thing is has a pattern. It only attacked once in every state, and only ever in big cities. The latest attack was in Louisiana.”

“If it’s attacking in a pattern, we may be able to guess the next location,” Castiel said.

“Do you think there’s a pattern, too?” Sam asked him.

“Of course,” Castiel didn’t hesitate in saying. “Even sporadic creatures have something that leaves a hint behind. We just need to find it…”

“So, what’s stoppin’ you?” Dean raised an eyebrow in Castiel’s direction.

Sam gave him an unimpressed look from over the top of his laptop. “You’re supposed to be helping with this case, you know. Not just watching from a distance.”

“I know.” Dean gestured blindly to the laptop on the table in front of him. “But you looked much more interested. You do the research, and I’ll gank the son-of-a-bitch. Capiche?”

 

Other than a not-so-subtle roll of his eyes, Sam didn’t argue.

 

“What else have you found?” Castiel asked both Sam and Jack.

“Not much. Just some vague information here and there. I’m looking for supernatural creatures with patterns,” Sam said. He slid the laptop over to Castiel. “But that’s it for now.”

When Castiel leaned over the table, his chest pressed tight against Dean’s back. Dean went rigid. He cleared his throat loudly. Castiel didn’t budge.

“Do you mind?” Dean shuffled as far away as he could in his chair. The sound of the legs scratching against the floor, protesting against the sudden movement, almost made his heart leap out of his skin.

“I was focused on more important things.” Castiel said, his voice dry.

The retort Dean had in mind was caught in his throat, and it came out in the form of a single hacking cough. Castiel moved away; the pressure on Dean’s lungs left with him. The moment the cough had ceased, Dean pulled his hand away; blood speckled his palm like tiny morbid freckles.

“Are you all right?” Castiel frowned. Dean had to clear his throat a few times before he could speak. As quickly as he could without arousing suspicion, Dean hid his bloodied hand in his jacket pocket.

“I’m fine.”

Then, the pain came again: a sharp pinch between his ribs. Dean shifted in an attempt to shake off the sudden feeling in his chest. It felt almost like a broken rib. He coughed into the crook of his elbow. The speckles of blood left behind did very little to ease his nerves.

“How long have you had that cough?” Castiel asked when his question received no further answer. Gone was the earlier dry snark, replaced instead by something softer.

“I’m fine.” Dean held a hand to his chest. He tried to wave Castiel off, but he wouldn’t budge. Castiel moved Dean’s hand aside, as though he would somehow be able to see into his chest and find out what was wrong.

“Are you in pain?”

“I’m _fine_.” Dean took a deep breath. The pain had faded, although not by much. He pushed Castiel’s hands aside. “Cas, I’m fine. All right?”

Castiel was silent for a long moment. Dean wasn’t looking at him, but he could feel the weight of his gaze all the same.

 

Sam cleared his throat.

 

“I think I’m going to go look in the library,” he said, shutting the lid of his laptop. “We might find more information there. Lore, myths, anything at this point.”  
“Cas and me found a few folders down in the storage room if you wanted to take a look later,” Dean said. “Some of them looked kind of obscure, but they might be helpful.”  
Sam didn’t seem to think much of it. “I’ll try the library first. If nothing shows up there, I’ll try the storage rooms.”  
“I can help.” Castiel rose to his feet. “I believe I have a rough idea of what we may be searching for.”  
Sam’s face lit up with poorly-veiled interest. “The creature? You know what it is?”  
“Just an idea,” Castiel corrected. “I would tell you if I knew what it was.”  
Sam gathered up his laptop, his charger, and his half eaten toast. “Lead the way,” he said, gesturing to the door. “The sooner we can get started, the better.”  
Both Sam and Castiel left, leaving Dean and Jack alone in the kitchen.  
“Is it always this hard?” Jack asked. “Finding the creatures, researching, hunting.”

It was an oddly innocuous question, one that Dean found harder to answer than he thought he would. He had to think to what to say.  
“You get used to it,” he eventually said. “This is all I’ve ever known, so it’s not exactly strange to me. Ain’t too bad, but you can’t go back to a normal apple pie life after it though. Too boring.”  
Jack stared down at his hands for a long moment, as though contemplating Dean’s words.  
“I really should help them,” he said. “Do you want to go with them, too?”

“I’ll catch up to you.” Dean waved him off. “Don’t wait up.”

Giving Dean one last smile, Jack tucked his book under his arm and headed for the door.

“Hey, kid.”

Jack looked up.

“You’re doin’ well.”

“Thanks, Dean,” Jack said. His beaming smile spoke volumes more than his mouth did. Then, he was gone.

Dean was left alone to think at last.

 

                                                                       

 

Not long after Jack had left, as Dean swallowed down the last mouthful of coffee, something crept up on him with a forcefulness that drove the breath from his lungs.

He cleared his throat once, twice, then a third time. The stickiness wouldn’t budge.

He took a deep breath, only to find he couldn’t take one at all. He couldn’t breathe. Acidic bile burned up Dean’s throat, and he doubled over.

His cup slipped from his limp fingers and shattered upon the floor.

As quickly as the lump had stoppered itself in his throat, it was gone.

With a desperate gasp for air, the blockage broke free. Dean fell forward onto his knees and spat out everything in his mouth.

Hot blood dribbled down his chin. It splattered the tiles, staining powder-blue into dark crimson. He didn’t notice it. He took one deep gasp of precious air after another. He had never been so grateful to breathe than he was in that moment.

Slowly, surely, his heartbeat calmed. His arms were shaking so horribly that he couldn’t hold himself up for a moment longer.

As he pushed himself onto this feet, his attention was torn away from the slowly-spreading splatter of blood to a flash of white. His breath was stolen from his lungs once more.

 

Amongst the blood lay a single white petal.

 

An icy iron-fist took ahold of his heart and squeezed.

With numb fingers, his heartbeat a drum in his ears, Dean reached out to pluck the petal from the smear of blood. His hands began to shake. The petal would have looked innocuous if not if the fact it was slick with gore — if not for the fact it had come from his lungs.

That wasn’t normal, not even for a hunter. Why would he cough up a flower petal? Where had it even come from? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Bile threatened to rise up into his throat, held back only by Dean’s tightly-clenched jaw. He didn’t open his mouth for fear another petal would fall out.

He didn’t know what was going on.

He didn’t want to find out, either.

Dean cleaned up the blood and the glass as best he could with handfuls of napkins from one of the kitchen drawers; he shoved them into the bin, under all of the trash. The petal found a temporary home in his jacket pocket.

He didn’t know what to do with it.

“Dean?”

Dean went rigid. “Yeah?”

“I could hear someone coughing,” Castiel said. A book was clutching in his arms. “Are you all right?”

His eyes settled for far too long on the corner of Dean’s mouth; Dean had a sudden moment of fear. He wondered if he had left some blood there.  
“It was just me. Just the cough, y’know?” Dean said. He attempted a halfhearted shrug. It came out more stiff than casual. “I’m fine.” His fist closed tight around the petal in his pocket. Castiel’s gaze flickered briefly down to his hand before meeting his eyes again. “Just a snotty nose.”

It was gross, but far better than the alternative.

Dean covered the bloodied napkins with a handful more for good measure.

Castiel was watching him from across the room; he wasn’t quite smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either. Rather, he was simply observing — the slight tilt to his head gave him away in an instant.

As Castiel moved closer, Dean felt something. He could feel another petal: clawing, cutting, it was forcing its way out of his lungs and into his throat.

 

Just in time, Dean clapped a hand over his mouth.

 

The flower petal stayed jammed in the back of his throat. His heart hammered, beating a fierce drum against the inside of his chest.

“Dean?”

Somehow, Dean managed to swallow the petal back down. It didn’t go down easily; it scratched its way back down his throat.

“Stupid cold won’t budge,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Y’know how it is. I thought I was going to throw up all over you.” His laugh was weak. A tiny crease formed between Castiel’s brows. His book was all but forgotten; research forsaken, he looked away from the page to instead glance over at Dean. The expression on his face was softened only by the sliver of worry in his eyes.

“I didn’t think you would be unwell for this long.”

“Neither did I.” Dean tried for an easy grin; it felt like a strained grimace. This wasn’t going the way he had hoped.

“I can heal you.” Castiel reached out. Dean jerked back. His heart — rather than flower petals — was stoppered in his throat.

What would happen if Castiel tried to heal him? He would know straight away that something was wrong; he would tell Sam and Jack. Everything would go downhill.

Dean pointedly looked down at the book in Castiel’s hands. “I’m fine, seriously. It’s just a cold. It’ll figure itself out. The case? Not so much. Better get a head-start on that reading.”

Castiel opened his mouth to say more; something, however, stopped him before he could speak. His hand hovered for a brief second in the space between them before it fell back to his side. An unspoken tension seemed to settle between them. Dean didn’t break the silence for fear he would throw up a petal.

Castiel took a breath, glancing towards the doorway, then said in a surprisingly gentle voice, “Dean—”

Before he could say anything more, however, he was interrupted.

“Hey, I think I have something.”

The two of them looked up — Dean had never been more grateful to see Sam in his life. Opposite them, Sam was holding a map in one hand and a pen in the other.

“I have something to show you,” Sam said, just as Dean started to ask what was wrong.

“I have another lead on our case.” Sam turned to Castiel. “The pattern I was telling you about, I think I have it figured out.”

Dean wasn’t sure if he was imagining the pride in Castiel’s smile. “Tell me about it,” Castiel said. His gaze finally left Dean, and it was as though a weight had been taken off of Dean’s shoulders.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Sam didn’t hesitate in leading the two of them to the war room, where he had laid out a series of books and notes upon the main table.

 

He pulled out the large paper map once more. Dean didn’t remember ever seeing it before now.

Sam gestured to the map. “It’s hitting all the major cities. If I have this pattern figured out correctly its next target should be…”

Dean watched as Sam drew a line: first, from Washington to California. The line continued up to Montana, then back down to Arizona. It repeated the same pattern — North Dakota, Texas, Wisconsin, and Louisiana were the next hits. If Sam was right, which he usually was, the next city would be...

“Indianapolis,” Dean finished his thought aloud. Sam gave him a single nod.

“If we’re quick enough, we may be able to corner it there.” He drew a thick black circle around Indianapolis. “But we’ll have to be quick, or we’ll lose it.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait here?” Jack trailed his finger along the map, stopping on Florida. “If we stay one step ahead, we could catch it easily, right?”

Castiel shook his head. “You have a point, but that leaves too much up to chance. More people will get hurt. We need to catch it as soon as possible.”

“So we’ll head out to Indiana?” It was more of a rhetoric than a legitimate question, but Dean had to ask anyway. “We don’t even know what it is yet.”

“That hasn’t stopped us before.”

“Touché,” Dean said in a mockery of poorly-pronounced French. He ignored Sam’s wince.  

“We’ll have to pack supplies, extra ingredients, bags for the motels…” Sam began to check things off of his fingers. “Anything you can think of, bring it. If we don’t figure out what this thing is soon, we’ll have to find out on the way there. Who knows what we’ll need...”

“Have you got any ideas on what it might be yet?” Dean thought he saw Castiel give a subtle nod, but he was still by the time he glanced over to check.

“Not yet, but at least we have a location.”

“How can you be sure it’s still in Indianapolis? It could be a tactic of sorts.”  
“You’re not wrong,” Sam said. He seemed to have considered this as much as Dean had. Which was to say that he hadn’t considered it at all. He paused, then said, “or maybe we really have figured the pattern out.”  
“Any idea what it could be?” Dean asked again.  
Sam shrugged. “No clue,” he said. He looked over at Castiel. “What do you think?”  
Castiel frowned, his eyebrows pulling tight together. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. He seemed almost ashamed to say it aloud. “But it seems to be a predator of the sexual nature.” He trailed off.  
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Why does this not surprise me?”  
Both Sam and Castiel ignored him. Jack gave him a slightly confused smile.

“What kind of creatures do you know of that fit in this” — Sam thought for a second — “‘category’?”

“Well,” Castiel began, “there is a lamia, of course, but we have already dealt with one of those. We would recognise the patterns by now…”

As the two of them delved into conversation, there was one thing Dean knew for certain:

Tonight would be a long night.

 

                                                                      

 

As the night grew later and everyone began to wander off to bed, Dean found himself wide awake.

The thought of sleeping, as appealing as it was, was near laughable. He couldn’t sleep, not with his mind weighed so heavily down — not only with the case, but with his newfound illness.

If it could be called one. The thought of it made his insides squirm.

The silence made it all the more unbearable.

The quiet was no longer peaceful or appreciated; it felt odd instead of relaxing. To make matters worse, Dean’s chest _ached._

But at least he wasn’t alone.

Castiel set his book down and took a deep breath.

“Sam went to bed,” he said. His voice was so soft that Dean hardly heard him. “So did Jack. Are you going to sleep, too?”  
“Probably,” Dean said, knowing fully well that he would be awake for hours and hours from now. Castiel’s eyebrows eyebrows pinched by a hint of a fraction.  
“It’s only eleven.”  
“That’s still late.”  
“Not for you.”  
Dean cursed himself. If he wasn’t careful, his sudden odd behaviour would give him away. He had to think, and fast.  
“This cough is making me tired,” he said. It wasn’t a complete lie — he felt drained. “My throat hurts.”  
“I could make you something to drink to soothe it,” Castiel offered. Dean opened his mouth to refuse, but something stopped the words short before he could say them.  
What harm was a drink, anyhow? If he tried to avoid Castiel entirely, it would make him look all the more suspicious.  
“All right,” he said. “Lead the way, leader.”

  
Castiel’s lips twitched, as though he was biting back a smile.

  
“So, did you find anything else?” Dean asked as they made their way to the kitchen. The hallways were dark, but not any less welcoming.  
“I haven’t found anything relevant,” Castiel said.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Well,” Castiel glanced over at him, “I think I may have found something. Do you remember when I said this creature may be of the sexual nature?”  
“How could I forget?”  
“Considering all the evidence left behind and the pattern, I think I have an idea what creature it may be: a sex demon of sorts.”  
Dean snorted. “A sex demon? Those are real?”  
Castiel’s jaw tightened. The air between them grew tense. “Very much so. I’ve met my fair share of them myself.”  
“And?” Dean held his breath, waiting for Castiel’s answer.

Castiel simply shrugged and said, “Nothing note-worthy. It was a long time ago.”

“ _C’mon.”_ Dean nudged him with his elbow; Castiel didn’t budge. “There must have been something cool.”

“As I said, it was a long time ago. I was very much different back then. I have yet to see one again.” Castiel’s forehead furrowed in thought. “I’m curious to see if they have changed.”

They reached the kitchen, and Castiel immediately headed for the fridge. Dean watched as he pulled out the jug of milk and, after a moment’s deliberation, a tin full of hot cocoa powder.

“It’s too late for caffeine,” he explained when Dean frowned at him. “I like to think that hot chocolate is calming.”

“If I wanted to be calm, I would open one of the six-packs,” Dean muttered.

Castiel said nothing. He set a milk-filled pot on the stove, stirring occasionally as he scooped in cocoa powder.

“I didn’t realise it was so late until everyone went to bed,” Dean said. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me, huh?”

“Jack went to bed early,” Castiel said. “He worked hard today. I think he was exhausted. Sam was tired, too.”

“A bit over-excited, I think.”

“You’re not wrong.” A fond smile made Castiel’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “You should have seen Jack’s face when he found that case.”

“You were there?”

“No, but Sam described it to me. He said it was like setting a child loose in a candy store.”

Dean could almost picture it.

Castiel lifted the pot off of the stove and poured half of the steaming hot chocolate into one of the cups. After he had handed it to Dean, he filled the second one.  

“Cheers, Cas.” Dean lifted his cup in a mock salute, then took a long drink. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but it was easily one of the best hot chocolates he had ever had. It was rich, almost like dark chocolate. He licked the froth off of his top lip; his chest felt warmed, soothed.

Castiel’s smile grew soft.

They fell into a companionable silence that was broken only by the occasional sound of their sips. For the first time that day, Dean forgot about the pain in his chest and the petal in his pocket.

It was peaceful.

 

Until the quiet was disrupted at last.

 

Castiel shifted on his stool. His half empty cup sat on the table in front of him. “How are you feeling?” He asked. The question, innocuous enough in nature, made Dean go still.  He should have known Castiel would ask questions.

The mug was warm in his hands, yet a chill crept through Dean’s bones. The warmth of his chest was gone. “I’m fine, Cas,” Dean said. His grip on his cup tightened.

“Dean,” Castiel began, “you can always tell me if something is wrong.”  
“Nothing is wrong,” Dean said, firmer this time. Castiel’s eyes narrowed; it was not a look of judgement, nor one of scrutiny. It was simply curiosity.  
“Dean,” Castiel said, firmer this time. “You can trust me.”  
This time, Dean didn’t argue back as quickly as he had hoped. His retort fell silent. Could he tell Castiel about the flowers, the blood, and the cough? It might help, but it also felt as though it would bring undue trouble. That was the last thing they needed right now was another problem to deal with.  
Dean shook his head. “I promise, Cas. I’m okay. I’ve just got a cough or something.”  
“I could always heal you.”  
“Nah, it’s fine.”  
“Why?”  
“What do you mean ‘why’?”

“Why won’t you let me heal you?” Castiel asked. His voice was softer, gentler, as though pleading. Dean’s insides squirmed with what he refused to call guilt. He wouldn’t feel guilt over something like this. He couldn’t.  
“Do I have to give a reason?” Dean’s heart began to pound an executioner’s drum roll in his ears. Castiel didn’t speak for a moment, a moment that felt agonisingly long — seconds were like hours.  
“No,” he finally relented. “You don’t. I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to push.”  
As quickly as the tight feeling of panic had begun to choke him, it was gone. Dean barely stopped himself from sagging in relief.  
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He drained the last of his hot chocolate, then set the mug back down on the countertop. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you later.”  
Castiel’s eyes followed him from the table to the sink. “It’s early,” he said. “You’re going to bed so soon?”  
“Just a little tired, you know?” Dean said. “‘Night.”  
“Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean didn’t look back as he left the room. His thoughts were awhirl with panic; he knew that Castiel was beginning to suspect something was wrong.  
  
He had to find a way to get Castiel off of his back. But how?

 

The moment he reached his room, Dean pulled the petal from his jacket pocket and tried not to look down at his open palm. His insides squirmed at the mere sight of it. He couldn’t tell them — they already had enough to worry about without adding this to the list. But what was he supposed to do? Coughing up flower petals wasn’t normal. If he was coughing them up, he thought, they must be coming from his lungs.

That was the _furthest_ thing from ordinary.

Dean swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He resisted the urge to touch his chest, as though he would be able to feel the flowers beneath his skin. He couldn’t fathom it. The mere idea of it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end.

He hid the petal in a shoebox he kept under his bed just in case he ever needed to hide something in a hurry — now had never been a better time to use it. He couldn’t throw the petal away.

Not yet.

For now, it would stay hidden in his very own Pandora’s box.

He needed a solution, and fast.

 

                                                                           

 

Dean waited until he was sure everyone was asleep. It was still the very early hours of morning. Hopefully, Castiel had retired to his room.

Dean threw back the covers and slipped out of bed. He found his phone on his bedside table, and he made sure to grab it before he headed for the door. He was careful to make sure the hallway was completely clear. As quietly as he could, he closed the door behind him. The hallway was dark and uninviting, yet Dean was not deterred.

Dean crept past Castiel’s bedroom door as quietly as he could. His heart hammered away in his chest. If Castiel spotted him now, he wouldn’t know how to explain what he was doing. He would need an excuse. Midnight research? An extra snack? Maybe even sleep-walking would work.

  
Then again, Castiel wasn’t stupid — he would know that Dean was lying. That was the hardest part.

Even if he knew that keeping his newfound illness a secret was for the better, that didn’t soften the sharp sense of guilt that chased at his heels all the way to the library.

He had thought that avoiding Castiel would be the hard part.

The hardest part was yet to come — finding what he needed.

Dean had no idea where to look. There had to be at least a thousand books, if not more. He didn’t have a clue where to start. He was now realising that he had no idea what to look for. With no Sam to cover the research for him, no Jack to help, or Castiel to find books for him, he was on his own.

Setting his worries aside for the time being, Dean began to think. What kind of book did he need?

He was so sure he hadn’t been cursed — they hadn’t found a witch in weeks. The symptoms had only started appearing this morning, and he hadn’t been out at that point.  
Unless someone had cursed him while he had been grocery shopping with Castiel. But wouldn’t Castiel have noticed?

With a curse being out of the question, Dean settled on the next thing he could think of: a supernatural illness.

He needed to find something that related to flora, he was sure of it. And maybe something else that concentrated on the human body, he thought as he trailed his fingers along the shelves. Would it be possible to find something that mentioned both?

Then, his eyes settled on the spine of one book in particular:

 

_Supernatural Maladies: a Hunter’s Guide to the Unusual._

 

With one last glance around the room, Dean slipped one of the books off of the shelf. He hid it in the crook of his arm until he could pull out a chair at the nearest table, and he was careful to check one more time that he was alone. Once he was certain he wouldn’t be interrupted, he pulled the book out from under his arm. The title stared out at him, making the reality of his situation so much more real: something was wrong with him, and he needed to figure out what that was.

He ran his thumb along the spine of the book, unable the chase off the feeling that he was buying trouble. But his curiosity was deep-set, and he found himself opening to the table of contents without another thought.

The book was divided into three sections: _common, unusual,_ and _rare_.

He knew he wasn’t looking for anything common — he had never heard of anyone coughing up flower petals before. He flipped open to the unusual section and got to work.

It didn’t take him long to realise the book wouldn’t give him the answers he had hoped for: a curse set upon those who had stolen fruit from the orchard of a witch or a trick cast by an enraged faerie were far from what he had been searching for. One of the chapters suggested he had eaten an enchanted seed, but Dean was quick to brush that off. He wasn’t _Sam_ — when was the last time he had eaten something decently healthy? Disheartened but not discouraged, Dean set the book aside for a moment.

He needed to look elsewhere.

Perhaps the folders in the storage room would provide the answers the library hadn’t.

 

At least, Dean hoped they would.

 

He checked the hallway before he slipped out of the library. His every step was quiet and surefooted; the storage room was close enough that if he was loud, everyone would easily hear him.

He couldn’t risk it.

When he reached the storage room, he didn’t turn on the light. He knew that if anyone noticed he was in the room, questions would be roused — questions that he didn’t have answers to. He walked into the room, blinded by the seemingly endless dark, and carefully closed the door behind him.

It was jet black — far too dark to see. Were the walls pressing in on him, or was that his imagination?

He fished his phone from his pocket and, after a moment of fumbling, turned on the flashlight.

Spiders fled from the light of his makeshift torch. Dean swore he could see dust particles. The musty air trickled his nose, and he had to bite back a sneeze.

When was the last time this place had been _properly_ cleaned?

On seconds thoughts, he didn’t want to know the answer. Either way, this room was all he had left.

The library had been no help. Maybe he would find something here.

He needed to get his thoughts straight. What was he looking for? He needed something that involved flowers or a floral growth of sorts. He didn’t know if it was caused by a spell or something else entirely, but at least he had an admittedly small lead.

He briefly considered asking Rowena for help, but he dismissed the idea as quickly as it had arisen. He would never hear the end of her smug self-praise if he dared to ask her for even a sliver of guidance. Even if he did manage to swallow his pride and ask, it would only encourage questions. She would tell Sam, Castiel, and Jack what he was searching for. His secret would be discovered.

 

He could do this on his own.

He had to.

 

Dean inched past old artifacts and rotting tables, careful to keep his distance. Castiel had been right when he had said that much of this junk was dangerous; he was alone now — he had no one to help him if he accidentally got his foot stuck in a cursed bear-trap. The back of his jacket brushed against the old couch as he slipped past it and came to a stop in front of what he had been looking for: the old folders. There was no guarantee any of this would help, he realised, but there was no harmful in looking anyway. What other choice did he have?

His fingers trailed over faded labels: _antidote to lamia poison, a study of vampires,_ and _breaking a djinn dream..._

The list went on; it was a miniature library down here. How had they never known these existed until now? It was odd that Sam hadn’t touched any of them yet.

Then again, Dean thought as his fingers came away covered in grime, maybe it wasn’t quite so strange.

He set his flashlight down for a moment to dig through the box. He would sort the folders into a pile of things he had already ruled out and what he need to look into.

Any folders regarding to supernatural creatures or conditions he had already encountered went on the left. Everything else went on the right.

He certainly had his work cut out for him; trying to sort through each folder was far more tedious than he first thought. He didn’t want to accidentally miss anything.

A tickling sensation on his knuckles made him glance down; a spider was creeping up his fingers. Dean jerked back with a cry of shock. His lower back slammed against the table and sent a box careening to the floor; the sound of shattering glass pierced the quiet of the room.

Dean went still.

He held his breath for a long moment. There was no way no one had heard that.

The door stayed shut. No one came rushing in, demanding answers. The bunker was as silent as it had been seconds earlier.

Dean released the breath he had been holding in. His heartbeat begrudgingly slowed.

He turned his accusatory glare to the box on the floor; folders spilled forth in a mess of loose papers and yellowed notes. The cardboard box was all but ruined now — it was completely crushed.

Swearing quietly under his breath, Dean was careful to stay clear of the glass as he bent down to gather the folders. One in particular caught his eye, and he paused to lift it from the pile.

Scrawled hastily in the corner, as though written like a passing thought, were two words:

 

_Hanahaki Disease._

 

This, though Dean wasn’t sure how he knew, was what he had been searching for.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading. I really appreciate your support! Please leave a comment below and let me know what you think. If you spot any errors, please message me! Your comments mean EVERYTHING to me! 
> 
> I’m so sorry about the formatting. It looked so good in google docs. :((
> 
> If you want to talk, my Instagram is @swanofthelake. :))


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